


Summertime (And the living is easy)

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: X Company (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death of OC, First Time, M/M, OC is underaged, Some Humor, but nothing major, sex with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts out the way their fights usually do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summertime (And the living is easy)

**Author's Note:**

> I have fallen so completely in love with this pairing that it's managed to break through my writers block and spit out 2000 words of feelings and porn. I desperately need the new season...  
> Title is from Summertime, the Sarah Vaughan version.  
> Set at some random point mid season one, pre episode 7 and 8

It starts out the way their fights usually do.

They’re out on the streets, in the slums, when a sympathiser tries to gun them down. Tom whips around with his own gun, adrenaline pounding through his veins, heart jack rabbit fast, and freezes. The kid can’t be more than fifteen- the snarl and disgust on his face making him appear older than he is. The gun in his hands makes him seem like a man when he’s not. 

But he trains his sights on Tom, and Tom realizes his mistake. You don’t have to be a man to shoot a gun. 

There’s the sharp retort and the kid falls, bullet through the heart. A quick death. 

Tom takes in one shaky breath, and then another, tries to fill his lungs, kick start his brain, and finds it suspiciously hard to do so. 

“Come on,” Neil’s grim face fills his vision. “Time to go.”

He grabs Tom, steel grip around his bicep, and holy hell he always forgets just how strong Neil is, and drags him off down the street and away from the people cautiously emerging from hiding. Tom forces his legs to work and breaks into a jog next to Neil; the place will be crawling with French Police soon, they need to be long gone by then.

It’s not until later, when they’re safely back at the safe house, that Neil rounds on Tom, his expression murderous. 

“What the bloody hell is the matter with you?” He yells, voice echoing off the empty walls of the old house. Harry discretely lets himself out of the room, taking his equipment with him. They probably won’t see him again for the rest of the afternoon. Aurora and Alfred aren’t there to play peacekeepers either, expected to be out late into the evening. 

“He was just a kid!” Tom yells back because what else can he do? Everything about the situation is so god damn unfair. The gun he has still tucked into the back of his pants from their escape now feels like its burning his skin and he pulls it out, tosses it onto the table and paces away from it. 

“He was the fucking enemy!” Neil paces with him, tries to corner him. Tom has the height advantage but Neil is pure muscle, boxing him in, glaring him down as he forces Tom to listen. “And he would have fucking killed you if I hadn’t shot him first!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Tom howls. He can feel his hands shaking, with anger, with adrenaline, with something that tastes acrid in the back of his mouth, something like fear. 

“But I did and now it’s on both of us.” Neil places a hand in the middle of his chest and shoves. Toms back hits the wall. The place where Neil’s hand had been, even briefly, burns with a heat that shoots through him. 

“There’s always another way,” He argues, surging off the wall, placing himself firmly in Neil’s space, using his height to loom but it feels off, unnatural. Fury sparks in Neil’s eyes. 

“The other way was you being dead!” He grabs the front of Tom’s jacket in a vice grip and shakes him. “And for some bloody reason I can’t let that happen!” 

Tom stares blindly down at Neil for a long moment, unsure what to say to that. The moment stretches on too long and becomes a silence that settles awkward and heavy on their shoulders. Tom can see the weight of it on his shoulders, the way they sag abruptly and Neil’s hands drop from their hold on him. Neil turns his head away, closes his eyes, and lets out a shuddering breath. Then he steps back, taking his wall of warmth with him, and crosses to the couch, sinking down on it. 

He doesn’t say anything though and Tom’s skin prickles with every thought that rushes through his brain to his mouth begging to be let out. Something about the silence feels delicate and he isn’t sure what to say to make it more solid. 

Neil leans back on the couch, head tipped up to the ceiling and stares above, unseeing. For all his strength, all his muscle, he looks like a strong wind could blow him to pieces in this moment and Tom aches to see him like this. His chest feels tight and he doesn’t understand it but there’s a pull there, telling him to cross the space between them.

So he does.

Tom swallows down his words, his allies, sheds his coat carelessly on the floor and crosses the distance. Neil lifts his head to watch him, weary, when Tom reaches the couch. So Tom gets to watch the surprise that flashes across his face when he doesn’t stop there and instead toes off his boots, and straddles him. His knees dig into the soft, worn cushions on either side of Neil’s thighs and he rests his weight on them. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, half expecting to be tossed on his ass at any moment but for some reason there isn’t any fear accompanying that thought. 

Neil’s hands come up, probably on instinct, and clutch at Toms slim hips, strong fingers digging in.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? I ain’t queer.” Despite the harsh words, Neil’s tone is soft. He doesn’t release his hold on Tom’s hips, his thumbs rubbing halting circles through Tom’s thin shirt. 

Tom settles himself more firmly in Neil’s lap and brings his hands up to those strong, broad shoulders. 

“Okay,” he says with a shrug and then ducks down to kiss him. 

Neil’s wide eyed and Tom finds himself mimicking the look before letting his eyes slip closed and throwing himself into the kiss. There’s a slight spike of panic, what if Harry walks in? What if they’re caught? But it’s never a fear of Neil not kissing him back. 

And he does, with gusto. 

Tom moans high and needy as Neil licks his way into his mouth, and sucks on his tongue until Tom is hard and straining in his pants. He rocks forwards, feels how hard Neil is already, feels how the strong grip on his hips flex and tug him even closer. Their kisses are deep, messy, and his lips feel bruised whenever they pull back long enough for air. 

“Fuck,” Neil mutters and ruts up against him. “Thought I…”

Tom shushes him gently, winds him back in for another kiss and another until they’re rocking together, heat scorching through him, threatening to swallow him whole. And Neil slows the kisses, makes them shallow and sweet and Tom’s chest feels tight again with that same unidentifiable feeling from before. 

His hands slide from Neil’s shoulders, down the strong chest, tugging at buttons as he goes- fingers clever as he parts material to reveal glorious tanned skin beneath. There’s a spattering of chest hair that he runs his fingers through before seeking out tiny nubs, rolling them between his fingers to hear the way Neil moans and gasps, nearly dislodging Tom with the rolling of his hips. 

He pushes the shirt from Neil’s shoulders, tosses his ridiculous bandana across the room. Neil isn’t as gentle with Tom, and half the buttons disappear into the cushions of the couch, never to be seen again, before the shirt is tossed somewhere out of sight. 

Neil pauses, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he rakes his gaze over Tom, his torso pale and virtually unmarked, despite the business they’re in. Tom holds perfectly still, tells himself not to squirm under the hot gaze and is rewarded when first Neil’s hands, then his mouth follow the path marked by his eyes. He feels a pang of loss when Neil pulls back before he can leave any marks but it’s too dangerous for them.

His world tilts abruptly as Neil rolls them with sudden, sure movements, his hands steady on Tom as his body presses him down into the worn, old cushions. He’s a furnace above him, warm where Tom always seems to run cool and he soaks it up, hands sliding up acres of smooth and scarred skin, settling on Neil’s shoulder blades, stroking the skin there.  
They lay there for a moment, pressed together, gazes locked and unwavering. Tom can see, actually see, the fear in Neil’s eyes now, not for getting caught, but for him, and the feeling in his chest intensifies until he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but pull Neil even closer, kiss the fear away. 

Its summer in France and the room heats quickly, sweat pooling on their skin. Tom chases the taste across Neil’s skin, any he can reach, as he fumbles with the zip and buttons of Neil’s pants. Neil huffs out a brief laugh, biting his ear, and grinning at the way he arches into it.

“Eager.” He murmurs and Tom rolls his eyes, feeling some of the tension that had sat heavy in the room alleviate with the word. Neil helps him, thick, strong fingers pulling their cocks out, wrapping around them both and stroking.

Tom hisses at the sensation, at the too dry stroke, at the heat that shoots straight through him. He licks his own palm, wraps it around them both. Neil pauses then brings his hand up and Tom licks his palm, makes it wet with spit and then laves at the fingers, wraps his lips around his middle finger and sucks, hollowing his cheeks. Neil’s pupils are so blown there’s no colour left but they darken further and he ruts against Tom, hard and desperate. He pulls his hand free, reluctantly, and together they wrap their hands around their cocks, creating a jerky, desperate rhythm, chasing each other to the edge. 

Tom comes, like a punch to the gut all the air rushes out of him, he squeezes his eyes shut, mouth dropped open, his hips chasing that last beautiful feeling. Neil kisses his pliant lips, sucks desperately at his tongue, his lips, then stills above him and Tom can feel the heat of his release against his stomach. 

The air feels cool on their sticky skin as they lay there, breath panting and harsh. Neil half slumps to the side so he isn’t crushing Tom but he takes the heat with him and Tom is cold where Neil isn’t covering him. 

Reality keeps threatening to creep back into their little room. 

“If a man points a gun at you,” Neil breaks the silence, clears his throat when his voice seems to echo. “You shoot first, no questions asked.”

“I can’t make that promise.” Tom’s voice seems to catch in his throat. 

“What if the gun was pointed at Aurora? Or me?”

Tom swallows down the words that threaten to rise up, terrified by them and the implications. Because if the gun was pointed at Neil? The anger and fear that flow through him at the thought are overwhelming. 

There’s a polite knock on the door and they both jolt, Neil rolling off the couch with a thump. 

“Uh, guys?” Harry calls out but doesn’t try and come in. Tom awkwardly tries to do his pants up but he fears they may be a lost cause. He’s going to have to get upstairs to his clothes without Harry noticing somehow.

“If you’re done trying to kill each other,” Neil and Tom both snort at this. “I’m going out for some more wire. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

“Be safe Harry,” Neil calls out and Tom can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes on the other side of the door. He doesn’t reply but a moment later they hear the front door open and close. 

“Well,” Tom says after a moment. “That makes getting upstairs to some clean clothes easier.” 

“Forget clothes,” Neil pushes to his feet, uncaring that his pants are still undone. “I just want to get washed up.”

He holds a hand out for Tom with a bit of a leer and Tom grins and accepts the hand up.


End file.
